More poems from
Before it's LIGHT
FEEDING DUCKS, GREY NOVEMBER
no swath of light,
no smell of warm
wood shavings. A
rain coming scent.
Last leaf in wind.
Walnuts on the deck
bleeding ebony. I
Think of houses in
ice where there is
no light, of men
carving snow birds,
seals, caribou,
dream llams as geese
fly up, a cloud of
feathers skidding to
the corn that floats
on the skin of water
the color of light
THE BIRDS LIKE A RADIO ON ALL NIGHT
There, in the dark.
You can't touch
what's closer than
the sheets but a
presence wraps you
deeper. It was after
12 when their wings
and honks stirred
the lake. A skid
of webs, flutter
in black silence.
The moon revealed
nothing. I shut the
light off, floated
under blankets like
eel grass, the radio
low, waiting for their
cries like a woman
listening for a child
in the next room
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IN THE RIPPLED EBONY COVE
Temperatures falling.
Moon slivers on the
rolling skin of water.
Geese in half light,
armada in feathers.
Wind blows them closer.
One silver band glows.
Their onyx, black flame
in a night fire
GEESE AT MIDNIGHT -- ( in
real audio!)
as if a feather
quilt exploded,
a white you can't
see in the dark
but breathe, a
wind of white
rose petals,
wave of fog
in the shape of
flying things.
Like radio
voices on
the pillow,
lulling, keeping
what's ragged
and tears at
bay, the geese
pull sky and stars
in through glass
are like arms
coming back
as sound
More poems from Before it's LIGHT
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